


Not Yet

by days4daisy



Category: Extraction (2020), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Bruises, Crossover, Extra Treat, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Rake gives a quick nod. “John,” he says, and continues his slow way to the elevators.John turns to watch him go; this is always how it starts. “Tyler,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t follow. Not yet.
Relationships: John Wick/Tyler Rake
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



It isn’t unusual to see someone covered in blood checking into the Continental. John has done so too, to the bemusement of the Continental's appearance-conscious clientele. He doesn’t pause because of the blood or the torn clothes. It's because they belong to someone who doesn’t appear on this side of the world very often. Someone who owns a shack in the middle of the bush and doesn't take many US gigs.

But it’s definitely Rake, John knows for sure the moment they meet eyes across the lobby. John is too far away to hear Rake's sigh, but he sees the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Rake's once camouflage-green tank has been wrung out in red. He has a canvas backpack on, something from his enlisted days by the looks of it. Rake breaks eye contact long enough to take his hotel key and mumble something to Charon at the front desk.

Then, Rake is hobbling over, favoring his left leg. It’s not a pronounced enough limp to be a broken bone. Knife wound, likely. Hard to tell with the black cargo pants. Dried blood crusts his face, and it’s hard to tell how much of it is his or the other person’s. (Or people, knowing Rake’s speed.) John only sees one pistol holstered at his waist, but he would bet on at least two more - ankle strap no doubt, and shoulder? Plus, whatever he’s got in the backpack. Given Rake’s...basic fashion sense, clothing won't take up much of his knapsack's space.

Rake holds his eyes until they’re right in front of each other. Then, his expression changes - softens into a smile as he crouches to one knee. “Hi there,” he says, not to John but to John’s dog seated at his feet. “You’re a pretty one. Pit?” Rake asks without looking up.

“Mix,” John says.

Taking John’s cue, his dog sniffs at Rake’s extended hand, then welcomes with a lick. Formally accepted, Rake offers a more hearty pat. His downturned face looks tired even with the smile.

Rake rises slowly; a bit unsteady too, though he would never admit to it. The smile disappears. Rake gives a quick nod. “John,” he says, and continues his slow way to the elevators.

John turns to watch him go; this is always how it starts. “Tyler,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t follow. Not yet.

***

It isn’t too hard to catch up to Rake later. He never has quite fit in with the Continental’s night scene. John finds him planted in the furthest bar seat from the crowd. Red backlight illuminates the lounge. Its black counter makes fine company for John’s black suit.

Rake would be more at home in a backcountry dive. A gray tank sits under his unbuttoned green shirt. He’s traded in his black cargo pants for yet another pair of black cargo pants. John would bet on this being the most tailored outfit in Rake’s wardrobe, unless he’s on a job that requires some finery.

John has worked that kind of job with Rake. He can vouch for the fact that the guy cleans up nicely.

Which isn’t to say that Rake hasn’t done some cleaning up since the check-in desk. He’s scrubbed the blood off his face and given himself a fresh shave. It looks like most of the blood belonged to the other person (or people). The only cut John spots is a taped gash under his hairline. He's washed his hair too, still damp on his forehead.

Rake is working on a bottle of domestic beer that no doubt tastes like piss. Going American seems like a poor choice for an out of towner. At least Fosters has flavor. “Your tastes still run high end, I see.” John leans on the bar next to him.

Rake’s mouth twists into a smile that bites. “We can’t all drown in top shelf, mate.” He takes a swig off his beer. “I drink American when I’m in the good old US-of-A. One of these days, you all might make a brew that doesn’t taste like pigshit.”

“The 'brew' part’s the problem.” John flags the bartender. It’s Carla working tonight. She gives him a knowing look - never his biggest fan, but John has no fear of spit or anything worse in his glass.

He goes with a bottle of Black Maple. “Kentucky,” John tells Rake. “They’ve got a lot of nothing around a few decent cities. Like where you're from.” While Rake snorts, John asks for two glasses and fills one for each of them before Rake has to ask.

Taking the hint, Rake exchanges his poor choice of beer for bourbon and takes a sip. He holds the liquor on his tongue, no wince on the swallow. After a moment, he nods. “On point, as always,” Rake says.

John reads the sarcasm, but he sees no need to feed into it. He allows himself a mild grimace as the liquor burns a path down his throat. It’s an old, familiar feeling; a warm belly, a slow night, and Tyler Rake drinking in the chair next to him. Before allegiances took them in different directions. Before John got out and Rake went off grid, no one left with his contact but Nik Khan.

John earned his black eye getting Nik to admit that much.

There was some fucked job in Dhaka, John heard. Rake barely got out alive. John’s had his own problems since then.

“So,” John glances at Rake. “Looked like a fun one. Knife in the leg?”

Rake snorts behind his glass. “Ninja star,” he grumbles, before draining everything left inside it. “They’ve got goddamn ninjas here, did you know that? This country’s fucked.”

John refills his glass, he doesn’t have much of an argument to give. “That Morimoto’s crew? What’s Nik doing bringing you in on that shit? They’re drug runners, not smugglers. Not a whole lot for the bounty crew.”

Rake stays quiet, save another audible gulp. He already has a shine in his eyes, but his face isn’t warm. His beard is thicker than the last time John saw him, trimmed but darker on his jaw.

John raises a brow. “You’re not working for Nik, huh?”

“Piss off,” Rake grumbles, muffled by the glass rim. “I don’t ask who’s lining your pockets.”

“Not my business,” John says. The liquor bottles propped on the wall are all black to match the countertops. Red light makes them look like dried blood. “Guess a change of scenery makes sense after a guy gets fished out of a river.”

Rake laughs - a dry, angry bark with a bitter smile to match. “That’s rich coming from the guy who took out Tarasov for...a puppy? Did I hear that right? I mean, I like dogs as much as the rest, but Christ.”

John takes a patient sip and lets the bourbon swish around between his teeth. “It was more than a puppy,” he says once he swallows.

Rake scoffs, but John ignores him in favor of looking down the bar. It’s a light crowd tonight, which is fine by him. The bulk huddle in a knot of laughter and animated conversation in the center of the room. A few outliers line the lounge tables along the back wall. John recognizes Marla and Tony Wilks from the Western syndicate. There’s Vladimir from Black Wall and Chartese from Widows Peak. And a younger face John does not recognize, watching the crowd with only water at their table. John will ask after that one later.

A glance back finds Rake’s glass empty for a second time. This time, John lets him pour his refill. Rake does so with a tremor in his fingers. John pretends not to notice. “So,” John says, “how long are you in town for?”

“Not long, I hope,” Rake mutters. “Hotel’s fine, but I hate this damn city. Too many people.”

“Makes sense when all you’ve got is livestock for neighbors,” John observes.

Rake snorts. “I’ll take the damn livestock. Too many lines in this city. Too much power, and too many people trying to claim it.” He takes a gulp from his fresh glass. This time, he only drains a quarter.

John turns to prop his back on the counter. There are a few sets of eyes on them. When John turns around, they face away. He notes them; unknowns, no identifying house marks. Anons won’t look to make a big splash by breaking Continental rules. Worth keeping an eye on, but no immediate threat.

“If you’ve got a few days, I could use you,” John says.

Rake spins on his chair to look at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He’s more weathered than John remembers, but he’s still the same Rake. Arms like something out of a GI Joe cartoon. Tank clinging to a torso with zero slack. When he turns, the tattoos on the left side of his neck stretch. John remembers how the ink felt and tasted under his teeth.

“In and out job,” John explains. “Quick and easy. I’ll pay you.”

“Quick and easy. With you.” Rake isn’t asking, skepticism written across every line of his face. “After what you pulled on Viggo? Jesus.”

“I said I’ll pay you,” John repeats.

Rake rolls his eyes. “I don’t need your fucking money. Won't be rolling up to Winston’s playhouse in custom Armani anytime soon.”

Rake actually recognizes the make; it makes John smile. “How much do you want?” John asks.

Huffing, Rake turns back around to face the counter. “Way more than this bottle,” he grumbles, and he downs the rest of his glass.

“How much?” John repeats.

Rake glares at the back wall. The backlights make his eyes look like something out of Hell. Tension knots his shoulders and flutters through his clenched hands. He’s gripping the empty glass so tight that it wouldn’t surprise John to see it shatter.

But it doesn’t. Rake lets it go in favor of grabbing what’s left of the bourbon. “What time?” he asks. His voice takes on new weariness.

“Evening,” John says. “But you’ll need hardware.”

“I’ve got hardware,” Rake mutters. “I’m in 706 when you’re ready.”

“908,” John replies, “in case you want to finish that tonight.” He nods at the bourbon.

Rake chuckles, the sound roughened by liquor and tiredness. “I heard a guy once say that getting out of this business humbles you.” The tattoo across his neck looks like the clasp of a hand. “Don’t think it worked in your case.”

“Are you into humble now?” John asks. “Guess things really have changed.”

He pushes off the bar and strolls to the door. Before he reaches it, heavy worksman boots are limping across the floor to join him.

***

This isn’t the first time he’s had Rake inside his room at the Continental. It isn’t even the second or third time. But so much has happened since then, years and lifetimes of change between. Rake seems to feel the difference too. By his standards, he looks awkward filling the space between the door and John’s bed.

“Your dog’s gone,” Rake notes.

“Charon,” John explains. “Usually best before a job.”

“Right,” Rake agrees. “Mine’s with a neighbor.” He mumbles the response, going through the motions.

Rake shrugs out of his unbuttoned shirt and tosses it across John’s desk. The tank frames the arch of his spine. Rake's clothes never seem to leave anything to the imagination. John would think it was intentional if Rake gave even half a shit. Marine tours and years in this market have kept John's reputation intact, but he's never been a gym rat. Size like Rake’s doesn’t work in his line of work. But that doesn’t mean he won't look.

Taking the cue, John unlaces his tie and hangs it up along with his suit jacket and shirt. The latter is still crisp, barely broken into by the short time spent at the bar.

When he looks up, Rake is watching him. “You look the same,” Rake notes, and while he doesn’t smile his face is soft enough to mean the same thing. “Couple more dents in the armor, that's it.”

“You too,” John says, and it’s true. Without the tank top, Rake’s body is the way it’s always been. Low slung pants show off the strict lines of his waist. He’s added two tattoos in the interim, and a hell of a lot of scars. They make him look stronger, and the old stir returns. It’s been awhile since John let himself want, since he learned to love and lose. It should feel sacrilegious, it might if this were a passerby gracing his bedroom for the first time.

But Rake is a memory, jacked and bruised up. Every bit of him is familiar. The cut of his body. The lazy way he takes the glasses on John’s desk and fills both with what remains of the bourbon.

Rake downs his without waiting on a proper cheers. John forgoes his drink in favor of spinning Rake around and shoving him on the wall.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rake hisses. “Watch the back.” But it’s not serious enough for him to remove the hands that John forces to his shoulders. His own calloused fist is in John’s hair, yanking his head back to let him feast his fill.

Rake’s beard scratches into his skin. And then he’s biting, damn him. John struggles, and Rake growls, rumbling up John’s skin. They shove, and John’s spine cracks off the wall when Rake turns him. He’s heavier, but John is faster. As soon as Rake has him pinned down, John has Rake’s head yanked back and their lips pushed together.

There is so much at once for someone who hasn’t had anything in a long time. Rake’s fist is tight in John’s hair. His scalp aches as pleasantly as his mouth. Not ideal for tomorrow’s work, but John can’t muster up any indignation. Rake’s body pushes up against his. There is friction between them, skin and clothes colliding. It doesn’t take much for John to start to respond.

He feels Rake’s smirk and mutters an automatic, “Fuck you.” This earns a snort but not enough offense to get Rake’s mouth off his. John’s fingers scratch down his scalp to his back. Old scars scrape under his fingertips. Rake arches under him, and another growl - this one quieter.

Kissing Rake is like going to war. Neither of them like being led. They’re a clash of lips and harsh breaths and teeth. Rake’s scrape John’s mouth hard enough to sting. John wishes he could bluster about it, pretend it isn’t what he wants right now, that it isn’t what he needs. But he knew the second they locked eyes in the Continental’s lobby. They’ve always had this pull since the first time they met. Unintroduced ops on the same job, met on assignment in the field. It’s how John knows Rake cleans up nice - fancy tux, fresh shaved, all smiles. John’s hair was short, and he was down at least 2 dozen permanent scars. Different times.

Rake’s body is tight against his. John feels his outline through his cargoes, remembers him by the imprint of the fabric alone. John eases a leg up, forces more of a grind on his thigh. Rake likes it, his approval huffed between their lips. His momentary distraction lets John shove him off. They’re battling back to the bed in an instant, fists flying like a fight.

John gets Rake on his back on the bed. It’s easy with his bad leg, all it takes is an off-balance step and a push. Rake knows it’s a cheap shot, grumbles “Bastard” as John climbs on top of him. Rake bucks, and John has to pin him with hands on his shoulders and knees digging into his thighs. He could get flipped if Rake worked hard enough, he has the strength advantage even from his back. But it would mean stressing said back and the bum leg. And Rake seems more concerned with getting John’s belt unhooked.

John lets him drag the leather out, but he scowls warning when Rake nearly rips the zipper off his suit. It’s replaceable, everything is if you have the right connections and tokens. But it’s principle, a fact Rake knows as much as he does if the smug smile on his face is any indication. His eyes are still glassy, but the effects of the bourbon don’t seem to be showing anywhere else. John imagines this isn’t a good sign, but he’ll decide whether to care after tonight.

When he’s sure he has Rake subdued for the time being, he proceeds to Rake’s pants. The cargoes are loose on him and easy to unhook even with the activity underneath. No underwear, and John gives Rake a raised brow look. Rake snorts back at him, and bridges underneath. “Off,” he mumbles. “Fucking ninjas.”

“Excuses,” John accuses, but he climbs off and lets Rake sit up. He sees why when Rake peels out of his pants. Rake may not be wearing underwear, but bandages heavily dress his left leg. He’s careful shifting his weight to get himself naked with as little pressure as possible. From the thickness of the gauze, it looks like it was a direct hit.

“That’s what you get running with a rogue crew,” John says. He earns himself a glare, and sure, he knows it’s hypocritical. John shouldn’t care, and he doesn’t. Mostly. Another thing he’ll consider later.

For now, Rake’s nudity is a fine cause for getting himself undressed. John gets himself out of his pants before Rake can dare to try to rip them off. He, unlike Rake, hasn’t seen fit to go commando. John deposits his boxer briefs and pants on his desk chair.

When he turns back, Rake has a hand around his own erection. He’s dry squeezing himself to good results, his cock thick and hot in his palm. John’s own arousal is easy to see. He takes the reprieve to grab lubricant and a condom. The latter, John isn’t sure if they’ll need. It takes a lot for one of them to bend enough to give in, physically and mentally. But if they get there, it’ll be in the heat of the moment, and it’s best to prepare.

John returns to the bed and wrenches Rake’s hand off himself. It’s a mistake. His head is down, and his attention misdirected. It lets Rake grab him by the wrist and twist him to his back. John bucks, but Rake on top will take more to unseat with all his size. John could do it easy enough with the weaknesses he knows - Rake’s back, his leg, and he caught Rake favoring a shoulder too. All three would be low blows, though.

For now, John suffers through Rake pushing him into the hotel sheets, a hand under John’s neck pulling him up for a kiss. Their bodies slide together, hard and firm. John groans approval despite the position of weakness. He isn't overpowered often and chooses to stay in the position. This time, he’ll allow it.

Maybe it's that John feels Rake favoring his one side. Or maybe John is confident in his ability to attack from his back. Even this many years later, he knows Rake well enough to bridge up and grind them together. He makes Rake’s breath rush out and his kiss fall apart into staggered breaths. They make John’s skin humid and hot. He scrapes fingers across the tattoo lines drawn across Rake’s neck.

“Where’s the lube?” Rake grits against him.

John gropes for the tube at his side and flips it up at Rake. Rake catches it, his mistake. John surges forward, and they turn, clawing and pushing at each other. John pushes his knees down at Rake’s sides, pins his chest with forceful hands. Rake grunts and starts to twist under him. With a huff, he seems to reconsider. His struggle becomes silence, leaving only their breaths and the bottle flicking open. Wet sounds flood the room next, a hand slicked with lube.

John grunts when Rake’s slick fingers find his cock first. He’s already chafed hot from the press of their bodies. The added pressure of Rake’s fist takes John out of the moment. Rake feels good, and he seems to remember as clearly as John does. How to touch, with what pressure, his thumb circled under the rim of his cockhead.

It’s a perfect distraction. Again, they move - John stops Rake with a knee between his thighs. He pins the injured one, and Rake huffs his frustration. But he chooses to take it out on John’s mouth before anything else. John lets Rake take his taste, it’s the least he can do. Besides, he can’t pretend he doesn’t like it. His mouth forced open, bruised and swelling, the warm slide of Rake’s tongue between his teeth.

John gropes around for the lube bottle and spreads himself liberally. His hands are itching for the same contact Rake has. In his grip, Rake’s cock feels as good as it looks. He’s always had a good size, thick and long with a nice curve up towards his belly. It fits an easy movement of John’s fist. He likes the slick sound of Rake’s oiled skin between his fingers. Rake groans against John’s lips, John likes this sound too.

Even on their sides, it’s a struggle. Rake’s hand leaves finger bruises between "Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat" across John's shoulders. John’s heel digs into Rake’s calf. He forces their bodies together, curled hands and lubed cocks rubbing.

“Fuck,” Rake grumbles, in that gravel rasp that says he’s pissed but he’s also enjoying it. It’s nice to bed someone with so many muscles, it means there’s a lot to feel when the going’s good. So many twitches, clenches, jumps, and shivers.

Somewhere, the battle becomes joint strokes and effort. John catches their bodies moving in tandem, rocking towards and away from each other. Their cocks slide together, knuckles catching and thighs rubbing. John moans around Rake’s tongue, and this time when he feels Rake smile it doesn’t grate on him as much as it did before. Rake’s scarring grasp eases to kneading encouragement on his back. John squeezes his hair, urging the staccato breaths gaining tempo against his skin. Somewhere in the fray, Rake opens his hand for both of them. Their shafts rub together, grinding inside Rake's lube-softened palm. The callus on Rake's trigger finger scratches the crown of John's cock. John groans at the contact. His own hand wrenches for control, or at least a piece, the chance to feel them moving together. Skin firmly pressed, legs wound together, chests pressed flat, letting John feel every breath Rake takes.

John remembers how much he used to like feeling Rake come. His body is so responsive, taken up in every single bit of it. There’s shaking tension in places John didn’t know a person could lock up. It’s the only time Rake lets himself sound vulnerable, a gasp muffled by John’s jaw.

John is so caught up in experiencing Rake’s onslaught that he loses track of his own. Rake gives him those high pumping strokes that he loves, makes his thighs turn to jelly and his back jut forward. His seed streaks off Rake’s sculpture abs. John’s thighs are wet with Rake. He lets his eyes close for a moment. John doesn’t trust, he can never trust, but he can rest for a second which is more than he can usually say.

When John opens his eyes, Rake is looking at him. His mouth is extra red and sore, and not even the beard can hide it. John imagines he looks the same, not to mention the ravaging done to his neck and back.

Detangling takes some effort and caution. John is more careful with Rake’s injured leg than he was when he knotted them together. Rake rolls onto his back, blowing a tired breath up towards the ceiling. He looks way too good wearing John’s spend on his skin. John goes to the bathroom to change that. He sighs at the swelling purplish bruising shaped in bite crescents on his neck.

“Asshole,” John mumbles. He tosses a damp towel to Rake and uses his own to clean up.

Rake smiles, not hiding that he's pleased with himself. He tosses the wet rag off the side of the bed and closes his eyes. It’s strange to see himself allowing the moment of trust that John gave himself seconds earlier. A deep breath in and out, not looking at John, trusting somehow that John won’t make him regret it.

“You don’t have any painkillers, do you, mate?” Rake asks.

He does, of course, stocked in the bathroom. But John finds himself to not be in any hurry to offer them up. “Get them yourself,” he says, returning to the bed.

Rake huffs as John joins him on the other side. “Not very host-like,” he says. It surprises John when Rake doesn’t take him up on the offer, staying on his back with his eyes closed. “Who the hell was that condom for?” he asks.

“Take a guess,” John replies dryly.

Rake chuckles. “Oh, I know what I’d guess.” He blinks up at the ceiling, even from where John lies he can see their unnatural shine. “So,” Rake says, “you kicking me out?”

John assumed Rake would leave, he always left in the past. The question catches John off guard, as does the fact that he doesn’t have a pre-set answer. “Do what you want,” is what he comes up with.

Rake glances at him. Mouth twitching, he lets his eyes close again. “Minute or two,” he says.

“You do that,” John mumbles.

They lie in silence, the lamp on the desk still on. John can’t quite bring himself to get up and turn it off. He stares up at the ceiling, body heavy and sated. John only turns when he hears the evening out of breaths and catches Rake’s head nodded down to his chest. When Rake sleeps, he puffs exhales out between slack lips. It's a good look for him.

John watches Rake until he does finally get up - grunting and stretching his sex-sore body. John doesn’t make a secret of the fact that he’s watching, but Rake doesn’t acknowledge him. He gets up, limps around for his clothes, redresses in silence, and leaves.

As soon as the door clicks shut, John glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. Three hours. Rake stayed for three hours; three hours longer than he’s ever stayed before.

Alone, John lets his eyes close and stay closed. He can’t help but wonder, after tomorrow’s job, if that three hours might go up to four. If it does, John can’t say he would mind. This means something. He won’t bother to figure out what, not yet.


End file.
